Mr. Handsome Celebrates Mardi Gras

It was the final week of Mardi Gras (French for Fat Tuesday), in New Orleans, Louisiana, and the parades and balls take place every day and night during this time between Twelfth Night and Ash Wednesday, the day that marks the beginning of Lent. We stood atop one of the many lace balconies, so named for the intricate designs of the wrought or cast iron railing that surrounds them, overlooking the festivities on St. Charles Street. We were on the 3rd Floor of the hotel, on a private balcony, looking down on the parade, with its colorful cast of characters and its many elaborate floats. A Dixieland jazz band was playing When The Saints Go Marching In, and the local gay community was out in force, many of the men in outlandish costumes, complete with false eyelashes, glittery makeup and huge, elaborate headdresses. The crowd was so thick that the street itself was not visible through all the bodies covering it. Confetti filled the air, and the noise was deafening. The scene was surreal.

A group of college boys stood in the street, all of them wearing green T-shirts or jerseys of the famous Tulane University of New Orleans. One of the shirts read "Roll, Green Wave!" They were all looking up toward us chanting, "Show us your tits; show us your tits!"

Ian stood behind me, his arms around my waist, his chin perched atop my head, his hands on my belly. We both wore masks, his was of black glitter and covered the top half of his handsome face; mine, also glittery, was shades of turquoise and purple, with large matching plumes extending up and off to the sides. I was not wearing a bra beneath the thin white tank top that came just barely to my waistband, and I'm sure it was obvious to all that my huge, unruly nipples were straining to break free of the thin ribbed cotton and to feel the sunshine and fresh air upon them, as well as the heated gaze of the many men in the crowd.

With that, he lifted my top, exposing my breasts to the crowd below. This elicited screams of approval from the college boys, as well as many in the crowd of onlookers. Cameras flashed left and right, and handfuls of plastic beads and Doubloons pelted the cast iron railing. Just to enhance the experience, Ian slowly ran his hand over both my breasts, one at a time. Both nipples involuntarily puckered up at the gesture and pointed impudently at the screaming, lust-driven men below me. Even the male police officers on horseback were inspired to look up and turn their helmeted heads toward us, as this spectacle lasted much longer than the average quick "flash", and really, none of the other girls was blessed with the obscenely large, pink nipples that graced this pair. The sight of them, I knew, could prove rather startling at first.

I reached up to touch Ian's face, gently guiding his mouth down toward mine for a kiss. Thus, we remained for almost a full minute, my breasts still bared for all to see, Ian's tongue lewdly entwined with mine, and his hands rubbing my belly, threatening to go lower. I felt the familiar wetness between my legs, as the warm breeze caressed my naked flesh, and the shouts of male approval reached my ears. The camera flashes kept going off, and I knew, within minutes, the videos and still shots would flood the Internet. Hence, the masks.

Ian finally covered my breasts and pulled me through the open French doors that lead from the balcony to our room. Shouts of protest could be heard from the street, and plastic beads continued to pelt the balcony railing, a few of them actually reaching the French doors.

We left our masks in place for the time we were standing in front of the glass doors, frantically kissing and pawing each other. Ian lifted my shirt again and began suckling from my milk-engorged breasts. I was hoping this was visible from the street, though I doubted it, since the sun was shining outside. It seemed every mouthful of milk he extracted from my breast made me wetter between the legs, until I was so wet it wasn't worth talking about.

Ian effortlessly lifted me off my feet and carried me to the king-size bed, laying me on my back. I let my eyes rake over his beautiful body as he removed his shirt, and then his pants, his erection springing forth. His mask was next, and mine was removed; both were placed on the bedside table. On all fours he crawled onto the bed, settling atop me and kissing me all over the neck, shoulders and face. Hands, lips and tongues roamed everywhere. His hands reached beneath my skirt to remove my underwear. At long last, he checked my wetness, his finger gently rubbing me in just the right place. I moaned against his mouth, and I lightly rubbed the smooth, velvety skin of his swollen hardness, delighting in how it jumped eagerly to meet my touch.

Outside the hotel, the noisy French Quarter continued to celebrate the last days before Lent. It was an excuse to do anything and everything anyone had ever fantasised about, and it was the perfect atmosphere for an exhibitionist like me. Ian knew that; it had been his idea to take me here, and he'd had to book it six months in advance, because Mardi Gras is huge in this city; all the rooms in the Quarter are always booked far in advance. We were lucky to have secured a room with a private balcony that overlooked St. Charles Street. It made my little adventure in exhibitionism possible.

I managed to switch places with Ian so I was on top of him, my hands wandering all over him. I began to kiss him from his chest down to his belly, and I felt the hard evidence of his arousal between my breasts. I moved lower. I glanced up at his face to find that he was watching me with those beautiful eyes that had once again turned from aqua to icy blue. I licked his shaft from base to top, and then checked his face for a reaction. His eyes were now closed, his breath quickening. I licked him again. Again, it jumped at me, and I could see his jaw clenching a bit. I continued to tease him this way for almost a full minute, running my tongue up and down his shaft in light, feathery movements before finally taking him into my mouth. I think it's safe to say....he liked it.

I knew there was no way I could give him too much of my mouth, or he'd have nothing left for ME, and I'm way too greedy for that. I needed him very badly, but first, I urged him to my breast again. His talented mouth had me purring in no time, that tugging feeling bringing a new flood of wetness between my legs....as if I needed more of that. Again, he checked me to find that, as he put it, I was "absolutely soaking down there." I always remind him that this is for him and because of him, and that seems to please him a great deal. It happens to be true.

Feeling my wetness and hearing me say that he was responsible for it always motivated Ian to complete the act, and this time was no exception. He stood and dragged me to the edge of the bed. I knew this meant he wanted to fuck me hard, and I was pleased because that's what I wanted. I watched as he lifted my bottom and positioned my legs...then positioned himself. Then I felt the first thrust, and I cried out. I was so wet, and he was so hard....it was perfect. The thrusts increased in speed and force, causing my breasts to bounce wildly.

The parade and festivities outside were so loud that I knew there was no reason for me to stifle my cries, as I've often had to do in the past. No, today was just for giving in, for letting go...so I did. Anyone in a room next to ours would surely hear, if there were anyone there....but I cared not a wit. As the thrusts came harder and faster, my little cries became louder, until I was screaming out my climax, and he was grunting and growling out his, his head thrown back so that I could admire his beautiful, sinewy neck. What a beautiful man he was...and so talented too.

After a moment, we climbed beneath the sheets, and Ian held me in his strong arms, as he always did. I played with the mariner's cross he wore around his neck, waiting for my pulse rate to return to normal. "That was so incredibly hot," he whispered, kissing me on the forehead, his breathing still a bit labored.

"What, the sex or the balcony exposure," I asked.

"Both. You...are SUCH a naughty girl," he crooned in that sexy voice of his. I loved it when he said this. There's something about being scolded about how naughty I am in that very proper British accent of his...it just got me hot, and he knew it.

"Well...I'll tell you this much;" he breathed, "it's very.....very.....'sorty.'"

I feigned shivering. "Oooh...sounds kinky. I can't wait!"

"Well...YOU are going to get it," he warned, kissing my neck. "I WILL sort you out, because you ARE naughty, and..."

Then came a knock on the door.

Ian looked perplexed. "Can that be room service so soon?" He donned the white terrycloth hotel robe and walked to the door. Peering through the peephole, he said, "It's the police!" We exchanged a questioning look, and he opened the door. From my position on the bed, I could see part of an NOPD uniform, and a male voice said in a deep "yat" accent, "I'm sorreh to disturb you, but we received a kawl dat dere were screams comin' from dis room. Is everythin' awrite?"

"Oh...yes. Yes, my apologies," Ian replied, running one hand through his hair. He stood back, opening wide the door, so the whole room was visible to the two male police officers who stood there. "As you can see, officers, everyone here is alive and well."

I was still in bed, still naked, the bed covers pulled only to my waist, and made no attempt to cover up as they entered. Both officers got a good gander at my bare breasts, not that they were unused to that in their line of work. It didn't stop them from looking a bit longer than was necessary, however. When finally they were satisfied that no homicide had taken place, they turned to leave.

"Sorry fo' da intrusion," one of them drawled on his way out the door. "Y'all have a good time, now. Enjoy Mawdi Graw." And with that, they were gone.

Ian turned to me. "YOU....are SUCH a naughty girl!" He pronounces this "gel." "You even flashed the police! I can't believe it. You really DO need sorting out."

"I really do," I admitted. "I'm very bad. Do sort me out, Ian," I said with a pout.

"Oh, I will...," he assured me, as he approached the bed, his gait predatory, like a panther's. He slipped between the sheets and pulled me against him, kissing my neck just below the ear. "Although, I must say....I'm mindful of the fact that any sorting done to YOU may result in police being summoned once again...and that wouldn't do at all, love," he murmured into my neck. "I may have to gag you."

"Now THAT I wouldn't like at all," I warned, opening his robe to examine his armpits.

Ian smirked. "Something must be done to stifle you. I've never heard such caterwauling!"

"It's all your fault," I pouted, my hands exploring his chest and belly. "If you hadn't fucked me so hard....and so thoroughly....I wouldn't have been so...vocal."

"Well then," he whispered, "in future I promise to be less thorough...when I fuck you...hard."

I smiled. I could cheerfully listen to him talk all day. He could read to me from the phone book for all I care; it would still get me hot, and he knew it; damn his eyes. Hearing him talk about "fucking me hard" really puts me over the edge.

Another knock on the door interrupted my listening enjoyment. Ian, still wearing his robe, rose to look through the peephole. "Room Service," he announced, opening the door. A man wheeled in a cart with our meals, our champagne....and our desserts, to my delight. Bananas Foster, a traditional dessert invented right here in New Orleans, was our treat for tonight...at least, one of them. Perhaps I would eat it first, before it melted. Perhaps I'd spread it over Ian's naked body and lick it off. This was New Orleans...where the possibilities are endless.

What a city it is...the birthplace of jazz, The Big Easy. It's old; it's historic; it's exciting, and if there was ever a city more accepting of people who are...just a little off-beat...eccentric...not quite the status quo...I'm unaware of it. The shopping is endless, the food unparalleled, the weather always warm. The only thing it's missing is a beach. There is no seaside to be had, but there is the Mighty Mississippi. Every morning, Ian and I would have cafe au lait and beignets at Cafe du Monde on the banks of the Mississippi River, over on Decatur St. Street musicians would often stand right outside, playing a sax or trumpet, or even some makeshift drums for loose change people would throw them. From there, shopping is an easy walk, so that's what we would do. And at night...well, at night there were so many things to do, so much nightlife to be had.

Only the evening before, we'd found ourselves in a gay bar on Bourbon Street. I'm not even sure what made us want to go in there, except that a very friendly gay man, who saw me peering curiously through the front window at all the men dancing together, invited me in. Ian was in a store, and I was awaiting his return, a frozen banana daiquiri in my hand. In the Quarter, one can simply walk into any bar and get a drink in a "go cup," as the locals like to call it. I know of no other city in the U.S. where it is legal to do this, although I've not been everywhere. When the sun sets on Bourbon St., the police come and insert giant pipes into holes in the cobblestone street, closing the whole area off to traffic. Only foot traffic is permitted there at night, and everyone walks around tipsy, carrying their go cups, while the NOPD patrols the area on horseback.

"Y'all can come in, if you wawnt," the man said to me. I told him I was waiting for someone, and a moment later, that someone returned. The stranger must have thought he'd hit the jackpot when he saw my 6'5" handsome Brit, but he was mine, and I wasn't sharing. He invited us both in, and we ended up spending a few hours talking to him and his boyfriend. We learned their names were Michael and David, and they were certainly entertaining. The music inside was deafeningly loud, and we had to shout to have a conversation, but managed to learn that Michael and David lived right there in the French Quarter, and were native New Orleanians. They told us stories of things that had happened in the Quarter, like when the Mississippi overflowed its banks, which happened occasionally.

I was the only female in the entire place, and everyone noticed my Mr. Handsome. I got many covetous stares from men who no doubt wished me miles from there so they could have at my handsome Ian. "He shaw tawks pretty," David observed.

"Oh, I know," I laughed. "I could listen to him talk all the live-long day."

"I bet you could," David drawled, wiggling his eyebrows.

By the end of the evening, we'd secured an invitation from Michael and David to attend a ball at their place over on Decatur St. Balls were held every night during Mardi Gras by various locals, but you had to be invited...and now, we were.

So, tonight was the night. We both dressed formally, as was the custom, and donned our masks. My dress was long and strapless with a deep plunge in front, the colors matching my mask, turquoise, purple, and also a touch of jade. These were traditional Mardi Gras colors. I chose silver sandals to go with my long silver earrings, which were actually long, jointed seahorses fashioned out of sterling. I always loved seahorses; they reminded me of the sea, and they are so unique in that the female impregnates the male by depositing her eggs within him, using her ovipositor. This makes them odd, so they really fit the whole mood of New Orleans, where it can be so liberating to just be who you are, without fear of censure or judgement.

Ian, of course, cut a dashing figure in his black tuxedo. The black mask lent him an air of mystery, his blonde hair such a contrast to it. Because it covered the top half of his face, it drew the eye downward to his mouth....that sexy mouth with the perfect teeth, flanked by dimples and surrounded by that rugged shadow...the one that rubs my breast like fine-grade sandpaper....that talented mouth that works such magic on the various parts of my body. One look at him, and I knew I'd be hard-pressed to keep my hands off him the entire evening...especially if he speaks to me...and says something sexy...like "hello."

But, I resisted the urge to throw him to the bed and have my wicked way with him. We would never get to the ball if I were to give into my baser urges. So, off we went.

Michael and David's place was typical of a French Quarter home, in that it was attached on both sides, and opened into a courtyard in back. The interior was surprisingly spacious, however, and NOT surprisingly, tastefully decorated. The courtyard had two live oak trees flanking it on opposite corners, the branches of which canopied the whole space, intertwining in the center of it. Someone had strung white lights throughout the network of branches, to create a canopy of lights that resembled a starry night sky. The effect was breathtaking. There was a small hedge maze in the center, complete with benches placed here and there.

The hosts graciously greeted us on our arrival, and the drinks and food flowed generously all evening. An entire room on the first floor was dedicated to dancing; it contained no furnishings, only a DJ. At least half of the couples we met there were gay men, but there were some straight couples and some single people; some of them lived in the other row houses surrounding the courtyard. By ten O'clock I was feeling no pain. In fact, I was feeling rather amorous.

I grabbed Ian's hand and urged him toward the hedge maze. He willingly followed, after putting down his wine glass. The maze was small, but the hedges were high enough to conceal a person, if they were seated on a bench. I lead Ian to a private bench...as private as one gets in a courtyard such as this. I parked him on it, and sat on his lap. I could hear music coming from inside the house.

"You're being very naughty again," he quietly reminded me. "Shouldn't you wait until we're back at the hotel?"

"YOU," he emphasised, "are so....so...naughty; aren't you? You are a naughty....naughty...girl. You need to be sorted out."

I was busy kissing his neck, chin and mouth. We were still wearing our masks, and I was unable to see his eyes clearly; it made him even sexier in a mysterious sort of way. "I want you," I whispered between kisses. "I'm already wet, you know."

Ian hiked my dress up high enough that he could reach under it and feel around. "My, but you are wet! That's because you're a naughty girl, who is having impure thoughts. And you're not wearing any knickers! What are you thinking of, you bad girl?"

"You. I'm thinking of you," I slurred in my drunken haze. "I'm thinking....of how handsome you look tonight, how nice you smell...how sexy it sounds when you speak to me....when you tell me how naughty I am." His fingers were gently exploring my wetness beneath my dress now, and my hands were roaming all over him. I could hear movement near the hedges, and I knew other couples were likely seated nearby. They could probably hear us...perhaps even see us.

My tongue darted out to tease his beautiful mouth. "I want you," I breathed, my excitement growing from his fingers between my legs. His talented left hand began to gently rub me faster in just the right place. I was weeping down there. I kissed him deeply, his ministrations causing me to pant and moan against his mouth. His rhythm increased, his finger now buried deep within me, rapidly wiggling and rubbing against that hard, slippery little bump in rapid, even strokes. I buried my face in his neck to keep from crying out, but small sounds still escaped me. I felt my inner musculature begin its rapid, spasmodic contractions against his hand. I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming out my climax....which I wouldn't want to do in that setting, even as an exhibitionist. Still, I couldn't prevent all sound from escaping me, and I heard the movement nearby....I knew that at least a few people were listening to me pant and sigh.